


Death is a bridge

by 7slash20



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 03:55:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7298611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7slash20/pseuds/7slash20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Funny how many details he remembered of his years with Adam, yet he couldn’t recall how they’d initially met. Joe had no idea. Nor did he remember when companionship had turned into friendship and friendship into more. But somehow, someday, Adam Pierson had made his way into Joe’s life, had simply been around and Joe wouldn’t miss him for a single day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death is a bridge

**Author's Note:**

> I found some old stories on my hard drive; maybe some of you have a s much fun as I had re-discovering them.  
> Be warned: I'm not a native speaker and the stories are not beta-ed. Read at own risk!  
> (Dimeth is the name I used for my Highlander stuff, just in case you wondered...)

Death is a bridge of unknown width  
By Dimeth

  
  


_You’ve made all my dreams come true_  
_Now I’ve got hopes for tomorrow_  
_I’ve got more patience than time._  


____Mad over you Randy Crawford ____ _ _

______  
  
Softly illuminated by the setting sun, the hills of the Provence lay quiet and peaceful before him. The snow had come early this year, and a purely white blanket softened the outline of the landscape dominated by Mont Ventoux.  
Joe Dawson stood near the edge of a small slope, overlooking the silent scenery. He inhaled the cold air deeply into his lungs, held it there for a moment, exhaled slowly, his breath curling up into the air.  
‘Beautiful,’ he mumbled, ‘just beautiful.’  
He turned to walk back the small path he had trampled through the frozen snow. He was right on time and whistled absently, thinking about the upcoming surprise celebration.  
  
His cane slipped on something beneath the crusted surface as Joe leaned on it and he tripped, lost his footing and went down like a falling tree.  
‘Uh?’ On instinct, he let go of the cane to use both hands to break his fall. ‘Ow. Ow.’  
The cane slid over the frozen snow, down the slope and out of sight.  
‘Oh, damn,’ Joe muttered, watching the cane disappear. Leaning cautiously forward, he could see it – a dark line across the white – at the foot of the small rise. Inaccessible.  
Well, so he had to try and get up without the cane.  
_And then?, ___he registered with a small moment of shock. Walking uphill without the cane was simply out of question on this ground without anything to support him. ‘Shit. Shit. Shit.’  
He moved his arms cautiously. No pain. His wrists were okay. Sliding and slipping on his hands and fake feet, he dragged his body over to a small tree, the only thing in the vicinity which he could reach and use to try and stand up. Holding onto the stem with both hands he tried to get up. His shoes slipped on the ground and he crash-landed again in the crusted snow. Some snow slid off the branches and fell lightly on his head and shoulders. He turned and sat against the small trunk and regarded his legs. The right one looked odd, twisted somehow. It looked broken. It would be if he still had his legs.  
_At least one advantage of artificial limbs over real ones, ___he thought wryly, _no pain. ___  
The wind picked up and bit in his face.  
_Ridiculous. Stupid old bugger you are… ___  
Joe peeled his right glove off his fingers and felt in his coat for his mobile. Then he remembered and his fingers confirmed the memory: the mobile was on the kitchen counter in his flat in Paris.  
He snorted.  
_Must’ve been thinking through my boxers, ___he thought. _If at all. ___  
His butt felt already cold from sitting on the frozen slush.  
‘Stupid. Plain stupid to take the scenic route to the house. Topped by stopping to take a little walk… to look at the wintry, deserted landscape of all things…’ he grumbled. ‘Serves me right…’  
  
Yet, it had felt good to stretch after five plus hours of driving, had felt good to inhale cool, fresh air instead of the warm, stale fug in the car. Good to take a little walk, listen to the sounds of the crusted snow beneath his shoes. Good to take a few minutes to mentally prepare himself for the reunion with his lover. Had turned out a stupid idea after all…  
After another unsuccessful attempt to get up, and more snow falling from the tree, Joe decided to change his tactics. He filled his lungs with cold air and yelled:  
‘HELP!’  
He listened. A weak and distant echo, then deathly silence again.  
_Great. I told Methos on the phone my plane’d arrive tomorrow at 11:50. ___  
Joe hadn’t even bought a ticket. What for? He’d never planned on missing that special day. He would take the car and arrive at the house around six. Well, taking the snow into account… maybe about seven. And then… they would make love all night.  
‘HELLO! - IS THERE ANYBODY OUT THERE? – HELLLLLLP!’  
  
Joe, slightly out of breath, suddenly realized two things: There was nobody to hear his cries and nobody would come to his rescue. Thanks to his own great plans! Even if Methos would figure out that Joe wasn’t on the plane and would come looking for him –where would he start, by the way?- until then, he would be dead. If it wasn’t for that, he’d laugh about the cosmic irony of how his plan had turned against him. Surprise!  
Someday -the mystic time Methos toasted to for years- wouldn’t come and all the things Joe had postponed until then wouldn’t happen.  
‘HELLLP!’  
  
Joe sat back against the tree. Of course there wouldn’t be anyone to hear him and come to his rescue. The snow had been completely untouched, not even tracks of animals had been there. Nobody had been here for days…  
  
So he’d die before dawn. Well, freezing to death wasn’t the worst way to go, that was for sure. As far as he knew, it was painless and – peaceful. Like going to sleep without ever waking up again. He sighed. No pain, no drawn out suffering, not for him and not for those he’d leave behind.  
‘Coulda been worse,’ he mumbled. Wasn’t this the right time to get maudlin? To go over your life as a whole, to sort good things from bad things, to make a final judgement?  
Joe didn’t feel an urge to do so. Of course there had been events in his life, things that had made him the person he was now.  
_What would I’ve been like if I hadn’t lost my legs in ‘Nam? If I hadn’t been recruited by the Watchers? If I hadn’t been assigned to MacLeod? If Lauren hadn’t been killed? If Betsy hadn’t come back married?_  
_What if I hadn’t met Methos?’_  
Methos  
_What if he had never met this breathing, breathtaking miracle of a man?_  
What if he had never met Adam Pierson?  
Joe swallowed and shifted uncomfortably on the cold ground.  
_What if he had never known that his casual lover for years was not 25 years old grad student Adam, but Methos, the worlds oldest Immortal?_  
  
‘I’ll never forget or forgive that you didn’t tell me yourself, OLD MAN…’ Joe had said to Methos months after MacLeod had dropped his little bomb.  
‘So, does it matter?’ Methos had asked with genuine curiosity.  
It had been their first night at the house near Avignon. December 2nd 1994 – today, seven years ago.  
_Did it matter?_  
  
_I couldn’t tell him, but to me the difference was immense._  
_Being in love with 25-year-old Adam Pierson, a kid that would have a future, had 40, maybe 50 years to go was difficult enough, but nevertheless, I would be the one to go first. Adam was strong, he would recover. He wouldn’t grieve for long; he would go on with his life pretty soon after my death._  
_Being in love with Methos meant my lover could die -could lose his head- every goddamn day. A challenge on one of Methos’ moody days, a moment of hesitation, of indecision and he would be gone. I wouldn’t go on with my life once he’d be dead. Couldn’t. Not after all those years._  
_I became somewhat paranoid, realizing my lover wouldn’t die of old age. In 10 years, when old age would nibble me away, in 50 years when I was long gone and probably forgotten, in 500 years – he would still look like he did today – unless somebody’d take his head._  
_Yes, it did matter._  
_But I didn’t have a choice, did I? ___  
  
Joe looked at his watch. 5:54 pm. The hands on the face were slightly glowing in the twilight. He sighed deeply.  
_What a way to spend our anniversary… ___  
Of course they never called it that. Never missed it, though.  
Anniversary – that was for couples, for _real ___couples, for committed relationships – not for them.  
Despite their ongoing private - _secret ___hit it better- meetings, they’d never come out of the closet about their relationship. Maybe MacLeod had had his suspicions – how often could he walk into the Bar or Joe’s flat or Methos’ and think it was coincidence to find them deeply occupied with each other, talking, eyes bright, smiling… but whatever the Scot had made of it, he didn’t tell.  
Well, come to think of it, that secrecy thing was one he might have wanted to change, Joe thought.  
Someday.  
Ha! There it was again.  
  
But after their little surprise encounter with Amanda one night, it didn’t matter what suspicions MacLeod might have had. Amanda had caught them French kissing, hands busy in each others clothes, in the back room of Le Blues Bar.  
‘Oops, sorry, guys,’ had been all she said, retreating.  
‘Amanda,’ Joe had gasped. ‘It’s not what you…’  
‘It’s exactly what you think,’ Methos had cut in.  
They had watched her hasty retreat in shared silence.  
‘Do you think she’ll spread the news?’ Joe had asked, hands still under Methos’ shirt.  
Methos looked at the closed door where she had just disappeared: ‘Like Typhoid Mary.’  
  
_Funny how many details he remembered of his years with Adam, yet he couldn’t recall how they’d initially met._  
_Must’ve been at the Watchers HQ. Or at Shakespeare & Co.? ___  
Joe had no idea. Nor did he remember when companionship had turned into friendship and friendship into more. But somehow, someday, Adam Pierson had made his way into Joe’s life, had simply been around and Joe wouldn’t miss him for a single day.  
_Well, come to think of it, there had been a day... ___  
  


After Amy had found out about him being her father, she’d found out about him and Adam next.  
She came into Le Blues Bar, her face as hard and pale as china and said: ‘What the hell did you think getting involved with an Immortal? – We’re Watchers. He’s one of _them ___, not one of _us ___.’  
‘But, honey, he’s my friend…’  
‘Ha – _friend ___.’ She’d cut in. ‘I think fuck-buddy hits it better.’ Her cold tone had cut Joe to the quick.  
‘Amy…’ He’d said beseechingly.  
‘The way I see it, Joe – DAD –,’ she’d added pointedly, ‘it’s _us ___or you and him. You can’t have both.’  
She walked away when he didn’t give in to an immediate decision and never came back.  
Methos’ comment had been a cool: ‘It’s her loss, not ours.’  
And Joe had exploded right into his face: ‘Shut up, dammit. I’m in this shit because you couldn’t keep on your pants 200 years ago…’  
And then he stopped, because he could see the answer in Methos’ eyes as clearly as if he’d spoken the words out loud: _You’re in this shit because you, Joe Dawson, couldn’t keep on your pants 10 years ago.’ ___  
And Joe had known that Methos was right. He was in deep trouble because they’d become fuck-buddies somewhere along the line.  
  
Joe shivered; the cold was slowly seeping into his bones. He rubbed his upper arms, then his stumps, trying to rub some warmth and feeling back into his extremities.  
They had become lovers at a time in Joe’s life when he’d felt wasted, and Adam had turned everything upside down and put Joe’s world back onto an axis with the illusion of youth and innocence.  
Adam had been eager like a puppy; eager to please Joe wherever he could.  
Joe had felt the stirrings of passion quite soon; he’d had encounters with men, short-lived affairs that had left a stale aftertaste and a vague feeling of shame and had always been discreet about it. Yet, he had been unsure about Adam’s intentions where to take their friendship. Adam had seemed too young, too innocent, and whenever he had been around Joe, even a bit naive. It just hadn’t felt right to go for more and thus, Joe had endured the waves of heat whenever Adam had touched him, had postponed an eye-to-eye talk for weeks on end, mustering up the guts to finally speak to him.  
And during those weeks, Adam had been quietly working on a seduction scheme of his own.  
It had been one of those boring Sundays; Shakespeare  & Co. had been closed and the bars Joe used to hang out in the evenings not due to open for more than three hours. On top, it had been another blazingly hot day, one in a stretch of 26, and during the afternoon the heat had been suffocating everything, while huge mountains of dark, heavy clouds had been building in the west.  
  
The fan in his flat had done nothing but whisk the stale fug around and around. When he had heard the first low thunder in the distance, Joe had groaned silently in anticipation of fresh, cool air.  
When the thunderstorm finally had broken loose, Joe had opened the living room window wide and enjoyed the feeling of the wet spray on his face, soaking his shirt front. The sky had been almost black and the rain poured down with a vengeance.  
It had taken only a few minutes before the capacity of the sewage system had been overstretched; overflowing gutters had been throwing up water like fountains, flooding the street below until it had transformed into a shallow yet wild river.  
People had been running, trying to shield themselves half-heartedly with drooping papers, and within seconds they had been wet to the skin, yet laughing.  
Everybody in Paris had longed for cooling, had lusted after rain for weeks.

The front of Joe’s shirt had been soaked within seconds and the fabric had been plastered to his chest, cooling his skin. He’d run a hand over his wet face, enjoyed the tickling sensation of drops running along his throat and down his chest.  
The sound of the doorbell had startled him out of his simple pleasure.  
He had turned and on his way to the door, when it had rung again.  
‘Yeah, yeah… What’s so urgent?’ Joe had growled, flinging the door open.  
‘Sorry, Joe…’  
_Adam. ___

They’d stood there for long moments, regarding each other silently, while outside the rain had been pouring down and the fan on the ceiling kept on turning with a low hum.  
Adam had been wet. More specific, he’d looked like a drowned cat. His hair had clung tightly to his skull, some particularly long strands hanging over his brows in front of his eyes. Drops had fallen from their tips, as well as from his nose and earlobes. Glancing down Adam’s lean body Joe had taken in dripping wet clothes and a growing puddle around his shoes.  
‘Adam,’ he’d gasped, suddenly coming out of being dumbfounded. ‘Come in, you’re wet to the skin.’  
Joe had stepped aside and Adam had walked in; his feet in the worn boots had made funny squishing sounds.  
  
Closing the door behind Adam, Joe had seen the drawn-up shoulders, the hands crammed into the pockets of Adam’s jeans: A picture of being uncomfortable.  
‘Coffee?’  
‘Yes.’ Adam had said and it had sounded kinda shy, as if unsure about his welcome.  
On his way into the kitchen, Joe had patted the bony shoulder and had felt the warm skin through the wet cotton.  
‘I got caught taking a walk.’  
‘A walk?’ Joe had asked over his shoulder. ‘Around here?’ Thinking about the neighborhood, Joe’d decided this was the last part of Paris he would choose for a walk.  
But Adam hadn’t answered and Joe hadn’t asked again.

When the coffee had been ready, the apartment had considerably chilled due to the thunderstorm outside and the fan inside. Joe had filled two mugs with coffee, with sugar for Adam and plain black for himself.  
Adam had remained where Joe had left him, a fresh puddle on the floorboards around his feet. He had been shivering. His nipples, erect from the cold, had been visible through the wet, white fabric of his t shirt.  
‘Get out of your wet clothes,’ Joe had said gruffly, setting the mugs down, spilling some coffee. ‘I’ll get you a towel.’  
Adam’s hands had come out of the pockets of his tight, wet jeans and he’d peeled the t shirt off. His eyes had left Joe’s only for the split second it had taken to pull the shirt over his head.  
His skin had been shockingly white in the dim room. He’d held the t shirt in both hands as if unsure what to do with it, then had dropped it to the floor.  
  
Joe’s eyes had followed Adam’s hands to the waistband of his jeans and his mouth had gone dry when Adam opened button and zipper and peeled the clinging denim down and off his legs. His white boxers had been also wet, clinging to his hips and butt like a second, slightly wrinkled skin.  
Joe had seen the dark patch of pubic hair the boxers were supposed to conceal and even more shocking the outline of his half-hard penis. Joe’s salivary glands had gone from strike into overdrive and he’d shut his mouth and swallowed convulsively to keep himself from drooling. He had tried to rip his gaze away from Adam’s groin but felt he couldn’t. A hot wave of embarrassment had washed over him as his cock filled and he’d stammered: ‘Wait, Adam, the towel…’  
Yet, Adam had stepped closer and Joe had flinched when he touched his arm.  
Adam’s voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper: ‘You’re wet too.’  
He had been close enough for Joe to see the goosebumps on his arms which made the tiny hairs on his skin stand up. In Joe’s fantasies, he had imagined Adam’s body almost hairless, but now he was proven wrong, arms and as far as he could see, thighs were covered with downy, almost translucent hair. Joe had wondered briefly how they would feel to his hands or his lips, but had dismissed the thought quickly as it was just heightening his state of unbidden arousal.  
‘The towel,’ he’d repeated and his gaze had shot around between Adam’s eyes, his lips, his mostly naked body and his lips again, when Adam had cupped Joe’s cheek and had said calmly: ‘Isn’t this what you want, Joe?’  
The question so shy, so sweet and the answer so obvious.  
  
Joe had stumbled backwards, breaking the contact, determined not to go too far.  
Suddenly the noise of the rain had filtered back into Joe’s mind, a constant tapping on the floor. _The window. It is still wide open ___. He had turned and closed it, grateful for the little distance the action had provided to compose himself.  
He had started when Adam’s breath had tickled his neck: ‘It’s what I want, Joe…’  
And he had pressed his body against Joe’s back, emphasizing the truth of his words.  
‘Joe?!’  
‘Adam, it’s not that easy…’  
He had turned to meet the younger one’s eye, determined to send him home – and had found his mouth claimed without hesitation while Adam’s hands had dived under his damp shirt, running cold fingers over bare skin. The first tentative touch of the sweet, warm tongue had made Joe gasp and his arms had gone around Adam as if automatically.  
‘You’re so cold,’ Joe had whispered.  
‘Just on the outside.’  
Joe had looked into the green-golden eyes: ‘You sure it’s what you want?’  
Adam had nodded, wearing a serious expression.  
_Then there’s no use denying us any longer what we both want ___. Joe hadn’t said it loud, but taken Adam’s hand and led the way to his small bedroom.

They’d stood next to the narrow bed, suddenly both hesitant. Adam had broken the paralysis by slowly pushing down his last piece of clothing, his wet boxers. Then he had taken Joe’s left hand and placed it on his chest right over his heart. Joe had felt the rapid beating inside the strong ribcage and his fingertips moved to the left nipple, still a hard little peak of flesh from the chilly air.  
  
Adam’s fingers had battled with the buttons of Joe’s wet shirt. Belt, button, zipper of Joe’s trousers came next. He’d helped Joe sit on the bed, then joined him, stepping past the point of no return with a smile.Afterwards, Adam had fallen asleep lying on his side next to Joe. For Joe, sleep had refused to come. Before his eyes images from the last few hours had replayed themselves like an endless slide show: The narrow hips, the pale skin, his own hands on the much younger body, his own skin dark and wrinkled against Adam’s.  
Adam’s inexperienced yet enthused caresses, the way he had grown more confident with every touch.  
How old was Adam?  
24 maybe, 26 at best.  
Joe would turn forty soon.  
What had he done?  
  
Yes, Adam had initiated last night’s events and yes, Joe had made sure that they could stop at any time if Adam were uncomfortable.  
Joe had known too well about the effect the revelation of harness and stumps could have on lovers – few as he had had over the last 15 years. For his own sake he’d made sure that he’d rather stop activities in time than see lingering shock and embarrassment on their faces.  
Adam hadn’t stopped though, hadn’t even hesitated to reveal Joe’s prosthetic legs. He had encouraged him to step way beyond the borders Joe had build for a first sexual encounter - even in his wildest dreams.  
But maybe he had interpreted Adam’s actions wrong somewhere along the way. Had Adam just tried to please him one more time? To fill the expectations he saw in Joe’s eyes before he even mouthed them? Had it all just been Joe’s imagination? Had he just seen what he wanted to see?  
No. No one could imagine the hunger in Adam’s eyes or his eager hands… or could he?  
But Adam had been hard even before he had kissed Joe, long before Joe had dared to touch him; one couldn’t fake arousal… could he?  
He had fallen into a troubled sleep somewhere in the midst of his meandering thoughts.  
Joe chuckled. If only he had known then, what he knew now about his mate.  
_Young and innocent… ___  
He laughed out loud at the moon and hugged himself tighter against the chills that shook his body.  
The morning after, he’d woken to a different world, one where he felt less wasted, a smile plastered on his face, but when he’d heard Adam rummage around in the kitchen, the old world returned along with the scent of fresh coffee and warm croissants.  
Self-consciousness had threatened to drown him. Adam was young and sweet. His pale skin was taut, unmarred by wrinkles or scars and his body was – whole.  
Night time and passion overflowing was one thing, but a confrontation with an ageing, male, crippled lover in bright daylight was definitely something completely different.  
Joe had put on his prosthetic legs, preparing himself for the morning after awkwardness and walked stiffly into the kitchen to find Adam, _all smiling, carefree Adam ___, awaiting him.  
‘Good morning, Joe.’ He’d said, blushing slightly when their eyes met. _Not awkward at all. ___  
‘Hey, kid, let’s keep this simple okay?’ Joe had replied, going for cool, yet his voice had been quivering and his hands shaking: ‘Last night…’  
But when he had seen Adam’s smile fade, he hadn’t had the guts to go with it and added: ‘Last night was wonderful, but you’re young. Your whole life is still ahead of you. You shouldn’t spend it with an old bugger like me – So, no commitments, okay?’  
Adam’s smile had returned, more gently than before and he had said: ‘If that’s what you want, Joe…’They’d kept it like this for a few years. The way they had come together at last was one of Joe’s fondest memories and during the years they ‘kept it casual’ he was feeding on it like a starving man.  
Joe had gone to Seacouver, Adam had stayed in Paris. It had worked on a casual basis until Joe’s assignment had decided that he would return to Paris and take residence there. Of all cities in the world – Paris.

‘Don’t give up, Boy Scout. Don’t you dare give up on me now!’  
Joe jerked awake, Andy Chord’s words still ringing in his ears.  
‘Damn,’ he muttered, shivering, ‘I fell asleep. I mustn’t fall asleep if I wanna have a chance…’  
But he was tired. So damn tired. That was what freezing to death was all about, wasn’t it? Go to sleep and get off the stage of life in a dream. What would his last dream be about? If he could choose, he’d love to have his legs back and go to a beach. A beach with soft white sand. He wanted to walk down to the waterline and drive his toes as deep as possible into the wet, cool sand, feel it grind between his toes. Ahriman had read his secrets well, teasing and tempting him with a run on the beach on his own legs.  
A walk on a deserted beach next to Methos – if he could choose.

It was completely dark by then; the full moon was rising in the sky, temporarily hidden by clouds.  
Joe dug his hands deeper into his pockets, trying to find a little more warmth or at least the illusion of it. The shivering had finally stopped.  
_Ain’t I supposed to see some kind of tunnel? ___he thought sleepily. _No, there should be a light, right? A light at the end of a long, dark tunnel. That’s right. ___  
Would he know where the tunnel exit was in this pitch black darkness?  
Joe blinked groggily, then closed his eyes.

He woke seconds or hours later, who could tell, to find himself bathed in a blinding spotlight, a real super trouper.  
He was on stage, the stage of his bar; he could smell the beer and the smoke, could feel the humming of the guitar strings beneath his fingertips. He was singing. The music slowly, swiftly went through his mind. And somewhere, somewhere in the dark was Methos, listening with a smile.  
Joe closed his eyes against the bright light.

When he came round again, he found himself staring into a familiar pair of hazel eyes.  
‘God, you’re dead too?!’ he croaked, desperate. ‘No. No. Nononono…’  
His cheeks were cupped by soft, warm hands and his head was firmly held in place.  
‘I’m alive, Joe. And so are you.’  
Methos’ lips touched his.  
‘So are you.’ Joe repeated uncomprehendingly. He swallowed with difficulty, his throat felt dry and sore.  
‘How?’  
‘Shhh, don’t talk. – How did I find you?’

  
Joe nodded weakly, slightly confused by the surroundings. The ceiling was low, and there was a dark square behind Methos’ head. The light was of a warm yellow tone.  
‘No hospital?’ he whispered hoarsely.  
Moving his fingers slightly, he touched skin, bare, warm skin.  
‘We’re in the Volvo.’  
‘What?’ Irritation crept into his voice.  
‘Shh.’ Methos’ hand rubbed wide circles over Joe’s –bare?- back. ‘The best cure – human warmth.’ He said as if it would explain everything.

Joe felt Methos’ breath on his face and let himself be pulled even closer to the slender body.  
‘When we talked on the phone this morning and you said you’d arrive tomorrow…’ A soft kiss fell on Joe’s ear. ‘I knew you were lying. You’d never miss… you know…’  
Joe struggled to stay awake, but his eyelids grew heavier with each syllable.  
‘I knew you’d be taking the car and so I checked the weather and traffic forecast. You should’ve been at the house by 6, maybe 7 pm. When you didn’t show up by 8, I started to worry. I drove up to Valence, then turned the car around and drove back.’  
Methos fell silent.

Joe lifted his eyelids slowly. In the dim yellow light, Methos looked strained.  
‘And…’ Joe urged him on wanting to get to the point before he’d fall asleep.  
‘I remembered that you told me about a more scenic route, so I left the A7 in Orange and took the D950… when I found your car…’ His voice broke and he swallowed loudly. ‘When I found your car and you weren’t there…’  
Methos held him in a vice grip, pushing his face into the crook of Joe’s neck. ‘Joe.’  
Joe felt so unbearably tired. He wanted to sleep, sleep in Methos’ sweet embrace, yet there was something left to do. Something he had to do now, not later, not someday.  
‘Methos.’  
‘Hm?’  
‘Happy anniversary.’ _Uhm, this is harder than expected: ___‘I.... I love you.’ ‘There.’  
Warm lips covered his mouth, spreading more warmth, comfort and care.  
‘Happy anniversary to you, Joe. Many happy returns.’  
Joe smiled, his eyes closed and he slipped into a guarded sleep.

The body was discovered the following day around noon by a peasant. Joe was leaning up against a small olive tree, his eyes closed and a smile forever frozen on his lips.

  
_Oh we never know where life will take us_  
_I know it's just a ride on the wheel._  
_And we never know when death will shake us_  
_And we wonder how it will feel._  
  
_Linda Ronstadt Goodbye my friend ___


End file.
